A Funeral Poem Upon the Death of the late noble Earl of Devonshyre,   

A Funeral Poem upon the Death of the late noble Earl of Devon-shire.  
NOw that the hand of death hath laid thee there  
Where all must lie, and levelled thee with th'Earth,  
Where men are all of them alike, and where  
There are no several rooms for state or birth:  
Now thou hast nothing left thee but a name  
(O noble Devonshire) and all is gone  
With thee, except the memory, and same  
Of what thy virtue, and thy worth hath done:  
Now shall my verse which thou in life didst grace,  
(And which was no disgrace for thee to do)  
Not leave thee in the grave, that darksome place  
That few regard, or have respect unto.  
Where all attendance, and observance ends,  
Where all the Sunshine of our favour sets;  
Where what was ill, no countenance defends,  
And what was good, th'unthankful world forgets.  
Now shalt thou have the service of my pen,  
(The tongue of my best thoughts) and in this case,  
I cannot be supposed to flatter, when  
I speak behind thy back, not to thy face.  
And am untied from any other chain  
Than of my love, which freeborn draws free breath;  
The benefit thou gav'st me to sustain  
My humble life, I lose it by thy death.  
Nor was it such, as it could lay on me,  
Any exaction of respect, so strong,  
As to enforce my observance beyond thee,  
Or make my conscience differ from my tongue.  
Let those be vassals to such services  
Who have their hopes, or whose desires are high,  
For me, I have my ends, and know it is  
For Freemen to speak truth, for slaves to lie.  
And if mistaken by the Paralax  
And distance of my standing too far off  
I heretofore might err, and men might tax  
My being to free of praises, without proof.  
But here it is not so, and yet the choice  
Of those I made did yield the greatest show  
Of honour and of worth, and had the voice  
Of present times their virtues to allow.  
And if they have not made them good, it is  
No fault of mine, nor ought it to be laid  
To disrepute these my observances,  
True praises do adorn, the false upbraid:  
And oftentimes to greatness we are glad  
To attribute those parts we wish they had.  
But Devonshire I here stand clear with thee  
I have a manumission to be free,  
I owe thee nothing, and I may be bold  
To speak the certain truth of what I know,  
There is no power remains in thee, to hold  
The tongues of men, that willbe talking now.  
And now being dead I may anatomise,  
And open here all that thou wert within,  
Show how thy mind was built, and in what wise  
All the contexture of thy heart hath been:  
Which was so nobly framed, so well composed,  
As virtue never had a fairer seat.  
Nor could be better lodged nor more reposed,  
Than in that goodly frame, where all thing sweet,  
And all things quiet, held a peaceful rest;  
Where passion did no sudden tumults raise  
That might disturb her, nor was ever breast  
Contained so much, and made so little noise,  
That by thy silent modesty is found  
The emptiest vessels make the greatest sound.  
For thou so well discernd'st thyself, hadst read  
Man and his smoke so well, as made the force  
The less to speak, as being ordained to spread  
Thyself in action, rather than discourse.  
Though thou hadst made a general Survey  
Of all the best of men's best knowledges,  
And knew as much as ever learning knew,  
Yet did it make thee trust thyself the less,  
And less presume; and yet when being moved  
In private talk to speak, thou didst bewray  
How fully fraught thou wert within and proved  
That thou didst know, what ever wit could say.  
Which show'd thou hadst not books as many have  
For ostentation, but for use, and that  
Thy bounteous memory was such, as gave  
A large revenu of the good, it got.  
Witness so many volumes whereto thou  
Hast set thy notes under thy learned hand,  
And marked them with that print as will show how  
The point of thy conceiving thoughts did stand.  
That none would think if all thy life had been  
Turned into leisure, thou couldst have attained  
So much of time, to have perused and seen,  
So many volumes that so much contained.  
Which furniture may not be deemed least rare  
Amongst those ornaments that sweetly dight  
Thy solitary wansteed, where thy care  
Had gathered all what heart, or eyes delight.  
And whereas many others have we see  
All things within their Houses worth the sight,  
Except themselves, that furniture of thee  
And of thy presence, gave the best delight.  
And thus was thy provision laid within,  
Thus wert thou to thyself, and now remains  
What to the world thou outwardly hast been,  
What the dimension of that side contains.  
Which likewise was so goodly, and so large,  
As show'd that thou wret borne t'adorn the days  
Wherein thou liud'st, and also to discharged  
Those parts which England's, and thy fame should raise.  
Although in peace thou seemedst to be all peace,  
Yet being in war, thou wert all war, and there  
As in thy sphere, thy spirits did never cease  
To move with indefatigable care.  
And nothing seemed more to arride thy heart  
Nor more inlardge thee into jollity,  
Then when thou sawest thyself in armour girt  
Or any act of arms like to be nigh.  
The Belgic war first tried thy martial spirit  
And what thou wert, and what thou wouldst be found,  
And marked thee there according to thy merit  
With honours stamp, a deep and noble wound.  
And that same place that rend from mortal men  
Immortal Sidney, glory of the field  
And glory of the Muses, and their pen,  
(Who equal bare the Caduce and the Shield)  
Had likewise been thy last, had not the fate  
Of England then reserved thy worthy blood,  
Unto the preservation of a State  
That much coucerned her honour and her good.  
And thence returned thee to enjoy the bliss  
Of grace and savour in Eliza's eyes,  
(That miracle of women) who by this  
Made thee beheld, and made thee to arise  
Unto a note more high, which thou mightst well  
Have far more raised, had not thine enemy,  
Retired privacy, made thee to sell  
Thy greatness for thy quiet, and deny  
To meet fair Fortune, when she came to thee.  
For never man did his preferment fly,  
And had it in that eminent degree,  
As thou, as if it sought thy modesty.  
For that which many, whom ambition toils,  
And tortures with their hopes, hardly attain  
Withal their thrust, and shouldering, plots, and wiles,  
Was easily made thine, without thy pain.  
And without any private malicing,  
Or public grievance, every good man joyed  
That virtue could come clear to any thing,  
And fair deserts to be so fairly paid.  
Those benefits that were bestowed on thee  
Were not like Fortune's favours, they could see.  
Eliza's clear-eyed judgement is renowned  
For making choice of thy ability:  
But it will everlastingly redound  
Unto the glory, and benignity  
Of Britain's mighty Monarch, that thou wert  
By him advanced for thy great desert,  
It being the fairer work of majesty  
With favour to reward, than to employ.  
And as thou saidst that nought thy heart did grieve,  
In death so much, as that time would not yield  
Thee means to show thy zeal, that thou mightst live  
T'have done but one days service in the field.  
And that fair bed of honour died upon,  
And with thy blood have sealed thy gratefulness  
To such a royal Master. Who had done  
So much for thee t'advance thy services.  
Which were indeed of that desert, as they  
Might ask their grace themselves, although we see,  
That to success desert hath not a way,  
But under Princes that most gracious be.  
For when our kingdom stood in state t'have lost  
The dearest purchase that it ever made,  
And what it bought with that exceeding cost  
Of blood and charge, to keep and to invade:  
As never nation paid a dearer prize,  
For such a piece of earth, and yet well paid,  
And well adventured for, with great advise,  
And happily to our dominions laid.  
Without which outlet, England thou hadst been  
From all the rest of th'earth shut out; and penned  
Unto thyself, and forced to keep within,  
Environed with encroaching government.  
Where now by this, thy large imperial Crown,  
Stands boundless in the West, and hath a way,  
For noble times, lest to make all thine own  
That lies beyond it, and force all t'obey.  
And this important piece, like t'have been rend  
From off thy state, did then so tickle stand,  
As that no jointure of the government  
But shook, no ligament, no band  
Of order and obedience, but were then  
Loose, and in tottering, when the charge  
Thereof was laid on Montioy, and that other men,  
Checked by example sought to put it off.  
And he out of his native modesty,  
(As being no undertaker) labours too  
To have avoided that which his ability,  
And England's Genius would have him to do,  
And did allege, it was a charge unfit,  
For him to undergo, seeing such a one,  
As had more power, and means t'accomplish it,  
Then he could have, had there so little done.  
Whose ill success (for that he knew his worth  
So great, as if there could have been redress,  
He had effected it) in him brought forth  
Discouragement, that he should there do less.  
The state replied, it was not looked he should  
Restore it wholly, being so disrent,  
And only now, if possibly he could  
But hold it up, it was sufficient.  
So that it did not fall asunder quite,  
Being thus dishiverd, in a desperate plight.  
With courage on he goes, doth execute  
With Council, and returns with victory:  
But in what noble fashion he did suit  
This action, with what wit and industry:  
There is no room to place it in this straight.  
Time, and my present griefs, do disappoint  
My willingness. Besides being of that weight,  
'tis sin to place it in a narrow point,  
And better now say nothing then to say  
But little, there remains for this behind,  
A Trophy to b'erected that will stay  
To all posterities, and keep in mind,  
That glorious work, which did a kingdom save,  
Kept the Crown whole & made the Peace we have.  
And here I will omit to show therefore,  
His management of public businesses:  
which oft are under fortunes conduct more  
Than ours, and tell his private carriages.  
Which on his own discretion did rely,  
Where with his spirit was furnished happily.  
Mild, affable, and easy of access  
He was, but with a due reseruednes:  
So that the passage to his favours lay  
Not common to all comers, nor yet was  
So narrow, but it gave a gentle way  
To such as fitly might or aught to pass.  
Nor sold he smoke, nor took he up to day  
Commodities of men's attendances,  
And of their hopes, to pay them with delay,  
And entertain them with fair promises.  
But as a man that loved no great commerce  
With business, and with noise, he ever flies  
That Maze of many ways, which might disperse  
Him, into other men's uncertainties.  
And with a quiet calm sincerity,  
H'effects his undertakings really.  
His tongue and heart did not turn backs, but went  
One way, and kept one course with what he meant.  
He used no mask at all, but ever ware  
His honest inclination open faced,  
The friendships that he vowed, most constant were,  
And with great judgement, and discretion placed.  
And Devonshire thy faith hath her reward,  
Thy noble friends do not forsake thee now,  
After thy death, but bear a kind regard,  
Unto thine honour in the Grave, and show,  
That worthiness, which merits to remain,  
Among th'examples of integrity,  
Whereby themselves no doubt shall also gain,  
A like regard unto their memory.  
Now muttering envy, what canst thou produce,  
To darken the bright lustre of such parts,  
Cast thy pure stone, exempt from all abuse,  
Say what defects could weigh down these deserts,  
Summon detraction, to object the worst  
That may be told, and utter all it can,  
It cannot find a blemish to b'inforst,  
Against him, other, than he was a man,  
And built of flesh and blood, and did live here  
Within the region of infirmity,  
Where all perfections never did appear,  
To meet in any one so really,  
But that his frailty ever did bewray,  
Unto the world, that he was set in clay.  
But yet his virtues, and his worthiness,  
Being seen so far above his weaknesses,  
Must ever shine, whilst th'other under ground,  
With his frail part, shall never more be found.  
And gratitude, and charity I know,  
Will keep no note, nor memory will have  
Of any fault committed, but will now  
Be pleased, to bury all within his Grave.  
Seeing only such lie ever base and low,  
That strike the dead, or mutter underhand.  
And as dogs bark at those they do not know,  
So they at such they do not understand.  
The worthier sort, who know we do not live  
With perfect men, will never be so unkind,  
They will the right to the diseased give,  
Knowing themselves must likewise leave behind,  
Those that will censure them. And they know how,  
The Lion being dead even Hares insult.  
And will not urge a passed error now,  
When as he hath no party to consult.  
Nor tongue, nor advocate, to show his mind:  
They rather will lament the loss they find,  
By such a noble member of that worth,  
And know how rare the world such men brings forth,  
For never none had heart more truly served,  
Under the regiment of his own care,  
And was more at command, and more observed  
The colours of that honesty he bore,  
Then that of his● who never more was known,  
To use immodest act, or speech obscene,  
Or any levity that might have shown,  
The touch but of a thought that was unclean.  
So that what ever he hath done amiss,  
Was underneath a shape that was not known,  
As jupiter did no unworthiness,  
But was in other forms, not in his own.  
But let it now sufficient be, that I,  
The last scene of his act of life bewray,  
Which gives th'applause to all, doth glorify  
The work. For 'tis the evening crowns the day.  
This action of our death especially  
Shows all a man. Here only is he found,  
With what munition he did fortify  
His heart, how good his furniture hath been.  
And this did he perform in gallant wise:  
In this did he confirm his worthiness.  
For on the morrow after the surprise  
That sickness made on him with fierce access,  
He told his faithful friend whom he held dear,  
(And whose great worth was worthy so to be)  
How that he knew those hot diseases were.  
Of that contagious force, as he did see  
That men were overtumbled suddenly:  
And therefore did desire to set a course  
And order t'his affairs as speedily,  
As might be, ere his sickness should grow worse:  
And as for death, said he, I do not weigh  
I am resolved and ready in this case,  
It cannot come t'affright me any way,  
Let it look never with so grime a face.  
And I will meet it smiling, for I know,  
How vain a thing all this world's glory is.  
And herein did he keep his word. Did show  
Indeed as he had promised in this.  
For sickness never heard him groan at all,  
Nor with a sigh consent to show his pain,  
Which howsoever being tyrannical,  
He sweetly made it look, and did retain  
A lovely countenance of being well  
And so would ever make his tongue to tell.  
Although the seruor of extremity  
Which often doth throw those defences down,  
Which in our health, wall in infirmity,  
And open lay more than we would have known.  
Yet did no idle word in him bewray  
Any one piece of nature ill set in,  
Those lightnesses that any thing will say  
Could say no ill of what they knew within,  
Such a sure lock of Silent modesty  
Was set in life upon that noble heart  
As that no anguish, nor extremity  
Could open it, t'impair that worthy part.  
For having dedicated still the same  
Unto devotion, and to sacred skill,  
That furnish perfect held, that blessed flame  
Continued to the last in fervour still.  
And when his spirit and tongue, no longer could  
Do any certain services beside,  
Even at the point of parting, they unfold  
With fervent zeal, how only he relied  
Upon the merits of the precious death  
Of his redeemer, and with rapt desires  
H'appeales to grace. His soul delivereth  
Unto the hand of mercy and expires.  
Thus did that worthy, who most virtuously  
And mildly lined, most sweet, and mildly die.  
And thus Great Patron of my muse have I  
Paid thee my vows, and fairly cleared th'accounts  
Which in my love I owe thy memory.  
And let me say that herein there amounts  
Something unto thy fortune, that thou hast  
This monument of thee, perhaps may last.  
Which doth not t'euery mighty man befall  
For lo how many when they die, die all.  
And this doth argue too, thy great deserts  
For Honour never brought unworthiness  
Further than to the Grave, and there it parts,  
And leaves men's greatness to forgetfulness.  
And we do see that nettles, thistles, brakes  
(The poorest works of nature) tread upon  
The proudest frames that man's invention makes,  
To hold his memory when he is gone.  
But Devonshire thou hast another Tomb  
Which is erected in a safer room.  Samuel Daniel, 
FINIS.